


You Go Down Smooth

by LadyMarieBee



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMarieBee/pseuds/LadyMarieBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby thinks that she can take him like a shot of vodka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Go Down Smooth

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song 'You Go Down Smooth' by Lake Street Dive. Not the same era or sound as the movie, but I like the meaning when applied to Gallya.
> 
> Would I be lying if I said you were too sweet  
> Though I'm quite sure you've got a bite  
> I could say that you were just a special treat  
> Though we both know that's not right
> 
> And there's a little bit of Napoleon at the end because I feel like as much as he would be a major Gallya shipper, he just seems like the kind of guy who would get a massive kick out of being a cockblock. I also think he would prefer entering rooms through windows.

“No.”

For all of his gazing eyes and comforting touches, Illya remains steadfast in his determination not to indulge in Gaby’s fun. Drinking, dancing, even wrestling – he often stops them before they get anywhere good. She thinks though that he may be embarrassed how easily she’d sat on his chest in Rome; _while intoxicated_ she teases and he just grumbles in thick Russian under his breath.

“No?” She parrots, jutting out a hip and raising her right hand to peer at the bottle of gin she holds. Her left hand drops and the twin tumblers she clutches clink together. “What offends you? The year? The brand? Perhaps you’d prefer something stronger?”

She places the gin back on the polished metal beverage cart, taking up the vodka instead.

Illya has mercifully forgone the chessboard tonight, but barely looks away from his telescope as he addresses her. “We are on mission.”

“ _Cowboy_ is on a mission.”

He doesn’t say anything in reply, just bats his long blonde lashes and stares intently down the scope. She grates her teeth. It bothers her too, only they cope in different ways.

She has only ever been with them. She doesn’t count the time she spent waiting in East Berlin as practical spying; she has only ever spied with them. And while she had a mission separate from theirs, she could count on their support when Rome went sour. She has become accustomed Illya’s strong hands boosting her over walls, Solo’s weight behind her on motorcycles and in cars – she cannot imagine working without them.

Illya and Solo are different cases from her though, both solitary spies who were jumbled together to save the world, and they’ve handled it admirably. Illya, she thinks, even _likes_ having partners, despite his cold exterior. Solo, she thinks, likes having them around for someone to hear his one-liners. But while Gaby and Illya are bound to their UNCLE alliance ( _for now_ is that dangerous whisper that she tries not to worry about), Solo’s handler continues to give him missions apart from theirs, leaving them with just the barebones information gleaned by Illya’s trackers and plants. And Solo knows all of the Russian’s best spots now anyways.

They know very little as they wait in Illya’s dingy, unassuming hotel room, peering through the Russian’s high grade telescope, watching the rooftop restaurant two blocks over.

19:30 dinner at _Lasaibles_ , intel drop by a Spanish informant.

Why they aren’t privy to the particulars, Gaby has no clue. Illya has been running off names under his breath like one of them will stick to the back of the informant’s head.

_Spies?_ She asked.

_Criminals_ _._ Illya had barely paused. _The Americans won’t reject a resource._

They’re both livewires – Illya’s fingers are keeping a rapid pace on his knee and Gaby’s overwhelmed brain is screaming for a relief. Loosening is what they need, she thinks, but Illya is entirely against the idea.

_Lush lips_ – Solo once called her and it’s not much of a compliment. So what if she indulges? Her tolerance is high enough that she wouldn’t endanger a mission, and Peril has a history of tucking her in if she goes too far.

But this is not their mission. They have not been invited and she’s welcome to drink her worries away.

“Perhaps we should go over. Have dinner.” The Russian grunts as she considers the drinks.

“I suggested that half an hour ago, you said it was a bad idea.”

He lifts one shoulder and half glances away from the scope. “I have reservation. 8 o’clock.”

Is that why he suggested the Dior? He said the black silk looked good with her skin.

Gaby crosses her arms and taps her foot, staring out the window at the lit up restaurant. She wants to go just as badly as he does.

“Napoleon wouldn’t like it.” She determines finally, biting her lip. She draws over to an armchair opposite the Russian’s spot on the sofa, successfully blocking out his view of Solo and his informant. She takes the vodka with her.

Leaning on the arm of the chair, she plunks the glasses between them on the table and twists the cap off the bottle. She’s got a lime to suck away the sterile sting, and she pares it into wedges with Illya’s army pocketknife, waiting for him to look at her.

She thinks that she can take him like a shot of vodka – she’d never much liked the stuff, though the Russians sold it in copious amounts in East Berlin. She finds herself rather addicted to him though; cold and harsh, but still burning inside.

At first she thought it might be the American for her. Solo is charming and handsome and likely would have no qualms about undressing her if she ever spoke an attraction. When he found her at the _chop shop_ she disliked his suave nature, all assuming and self-certain, though became almost immediately enamoured with his life. After all of her bookwork and training, _this is what it is to be a spy._ But Napoleon remained just what he was – suave, assuming, self-certain. It is his defensive mechanism when faced with danger: _don’t let it show!_

Gaby is glad now that Illya had been too fast for the American’s bullets, the night of their escape. She owes her life to the Russian several times over now, though sometimes his protective nature soured the job. She can handle her own, commandeer a room (though perhaps not like Napoleon), and make a mark unveil his darkest secrets without the need of a gun pressed down his neck. And yet, at the slightest sign of trouble or worry, she’s the damsel to be saved.

She doesn’t help her case much by crying his name whenever he’s in danger. Rome was only the first instance of many, and she’s never lived it down (Napoleon is a dog who revels in bringing that up in all company). Napoleon, she doesn’t worry for as much, though he never seems to mind.

Illya lifts his gaze ever slightly from the telescope, staring hard at the bottle in her hand, and the way she handles his blade.

“Is dangerous.” He grunts, finally.

_Is dangerous_ without, she thinks. They’re both hopped up on nerves, and without the distraction of their own mission to dissolve it, left stewing in their own adrenaline and worries. It’s alcohol she needs, because alcohol dilutes the ice cold fears and softens the raising hairs on the back of her neck that accompany the spy life. The restless, sleepless nights go away, the all too sharp reality blunts.

Gaby’s got a tight grip on the bottle neck and there’s sticky lime juice on her fingers when he meets her eye. Maybe he doesn’t mean the alcohol.

She folds up the knife, to remove it from the equation, placing it on the table with the tumblers. Her hand hovers over glasses though; childish she knows, to rile him up, but trying to get anything out of him is always a fun pastime. His sharp eyes dart to where her fingers are skimming the rim of the closest tumbler, and she can see a tick under his skin as he restrains himself from chastising her. What had he said in Rome?

“Or you’ll put me over your knee?”

“Yes.” He grunts, and there’s a spark of recollection. But she has a better idea.

“Come here then.” Gaby gestures with a flail between them, but she’s half standing so she moves his way instead, standing over his knees. “If I’m not to drink.”

She tucks a lime wedge between his lips and kisses him as he winces. He’s stuck then between kissing and spitting, equally intoxicated on her touch as she is on his and not the type to give a lady any offense. She takes the lime out with her teeth anyways as she leans away for air, sucking on the sour fruit as she downs oxygen into deprived lungs. It’s almost as fulfilling as a drink – almost.

He’s got dark eyes as he watches her and his thumbs are tracing subconscious circles under the hem of her skirt. At least she hasn’t misread the looks and touches since the Rome Affair – as she’d taken to calling their near kisses rather fondly. They were always dancing their way around each other – though Illya was far stiffer about the whole thing, and stomped his way through some of the steps. He appears perfectly adept now, as he shifts his hips against the sofa and transfers her weight forwards, against him.

She drops the rind on the table behind her and licks her fingers, lips popping. The bottle she’d been clutching like a lifeline slips from her hand at the way he’s watching her, it falls down beside him, and the vodka sloshes a little against the glass. It’s entirely forgotten when he surges up and catches her mouth again, large hands clutching her firmly. He’s never been a soft spy except for when he looks at her, and she can feel his temperament changing from cold and overbearing to warm and possessive. His fingers don’t hurt when they dig into the skin of her hip and thigh, but she knows that a lesser woman would balk at the strong touch – it’s passion, not pain. She presses into him, looping her arms around his neck and running her nails down his spine.

He tastes better than anything she’s ever had mixed – though she most often drinks pure – and burns more than rum straight out the bottle. Her throat and lungs and heart all pound for air between kisses; even when he’s not touching her she can still feel his fingers and his lips. He flips them carefully so that he’s leaning down over her on the sofa, and she’s none too gentle as she hooks a leg around and turns them onto the floor.

He makes her wildly dizzy when he looks at her, his hands shoved up with her tight box dress, hemline high on her thighs and utterly inappropriate. She wouldn’t for anyone else, but lets him carry on his ministrations, long fingers daring.

From his groans and his shakes, she can tell he’s as drunk on it as she is – and she _likes it._

Who could have guessed that the rolling of hips would be as natural to the Russian giant as a right hook? It’s certainly as disarming, Gaby notes as he kisses the skin shown by the deep neckline of her dress. She gasps and whines, urging him on.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t need any help.” Solo interrupts, straddling the window frame with his arms crossed.

“I don’t believe you asked.” Gaby retorts, sitting up enough to look at him over the coffee table. She’d heard him scaling the wall between their hotel room windows, but she’s not sure if the Russian spy, dazed and breathing hard, had the slightest clue.

“I thought Peril was watching.” He says with a raised brow. “I saw his lens. I guess not.”

Napoleon looks amused and doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere soon. Gaby rolls her eyes at him as he steps properly into the room, dossier in hand, and heads for the drink stand.

“Doesn't anyone want to hear how my night went?”

No, but they’re all partners now, and she supposes that one’s mission is news for all. She plants her hands on Illya’s chest and feels for a moment how crazed his heart beats, before lifting off and settling back on the rumpled sofa. Napoleon just grins over his shoulder as the Russian closes his eyes and looks like he wants to sink through the floor.

“Fantastic timing, Cowboy.” Illya mutters, dark and dangerous, but falls into the sofa with Gaby without enacting any punishment.

“Drinks?” The American offers, doling out scotch.

Illya actually takes a tumbler, but Gaby just laces her fingers in her lap and watches him down it. Both men raise a brow when she announces: “I’ve had my fix” before gesturing to the folder and settling in for their assignment.

Why should she settle for a drink when she’s got something stronger?


End file.
